This was supposed to be about the impossibility of driving anything even approximating a speed limit when “Jesus Built My Hotrod,” the song by Ministry, is blasting in one’s car.  This was supposed to be how I would defy you, personally, to obey any sort of traffic law, particularly those regarding speed limits, when that song comes on at volume while you are behind the wheel.  I was going to suggest that if you were somehow able to maintain any semblance of responsibility or maturity while piloting any vehicle at all whilst listening to “Jesus Built My Hotrod,”  you lack basic humanity and are thus likely also a complete bastard.  [Sidebar:  There was supposed to be a rather lengthy footnote here about how I have always said that if ever I was in the position to hire employees, regardless of the job, I would put them in a waiting room for several minutes, where I could observe them (yeah, it sounds a bit creepy, but hear me out).  I would then insert “Mannish Boy” by Muddy Waters (the version with Johnny Winters, of course) into the playlist of the music in the waiting room and observe.  In order to seriously be considered for the position, they have to move, somehow…do something.  I would, of course, hope that asses would be actuated, even if the candidate remains seated.  Special points would of course be awarded if the candidate actually stood up and danced.  But if the candidate exhibits no change while the song isn’t playing, as in doesn’t even tap a foot or finger, they are out.  I could never work with someone like that.  Anyway, I digress.  Just saying.  If you’re ever in the same building as me and “Mannish Boy” comes on, it ain’t no accident: that shit is a test.  Resume story.]

For you see, there I was, a few weeks ago, tearing absolute ass down the California freeway, defying myriad speed laws and all common sense, just hauling balls, listening to the prenominate song, “Jesus Built My Hotrod.”  My trip was about an hour and a half, but for those four minutes and 53 seconds, I didn’t give the slightest of damns about much else other than going as fast as possible.  I quit looking in the rear-view mirror on the side of the freeway for lurking law enforcement vehicles.  I wasn’t going to slow down for shit.  I could have come up on a police funeral…I would have barreled right past them, screaming apologies for their unfortunate loss but saying also tough titty on the speeding, here, officers: it can’t be helped.  Ministry.  You either get it or you don’t.

Hell, I don’t even have a hotrod.  I have a Honda.  Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.

That song is the key to everything.

Anyway, the song was on my playlist, which was on random.  When it ended, I was still all jacked up from the first listening, and still going about a 150 miles per hour, so I played it again, and again I tore all manner of ass south on I-5.  “Fines Double In Construction Zone.”  Who cares?

Kiss my ass.  Chase me all you want.  After the song ends, I’ll pull over, and I’ll take the ticket and I’ll see you in court, officer.  And I’m going to walk in to court and when it’s my turn to speak, I’m just going to play this song louder than shit.  And when even the bailiff loses control and starts moshing with the court clerk, it will be clear that I had no choice but to go as fast as I was going.  And even if that defense doesn’t work, Ministry will pay my fines because that’s the kind of cool they are, I just know it.

And then everything went wrong.  Some easy-listening adult contemporary piece of horrid noise started playing, and I screwed up my face like someone had eaten shit and my aorta contorted and what the hell was this?  There were huge solar flares hitting our atmosphere that week: had the satellite been knocked out and now I was listening to some sleazy Christian rock station?  Was this Creed?  I grabbed my phone like I was grabbing the arm of overly aggressive proctologist and brought it to my eyes.  U2.  “Songs of Innocence”?  Are you shitting me?

Bono, you pretentious hole.  You’re not William Blake.  William Blake didn’t have to force feed his work to anyone.

I pressed the stop button and tossed the phone in disgust.  There was a bit of cliff coming up, and I thought about driving over it.  But instead I drove calmly on, reached my destination, and then got into it with SIRI about what the hell had happened.  Had I been hacked?  Somebody had to pay.  She did a little research and this is what she came up with:  like a record company, Apple paid U2 for their new album, and then fascisticly “released” it (shoved it right up the blowhole of every iPhone user’s Music folder).

I have a Mac Book Pro sitting on my desk. That doesn’t mean I want to wake up in the morning to find Bono’s latest series of watercolor portraits of Desmond Tutu hanging on my goddamn walls.

To be fair, I haven’t actually listened to any of U2’s new album, whatever it’s called…I have not idea if it sucks or not.  My reaction has been so visceral and malicious any time one of these compulsary songs comes on because it’s like a friend of yours showing up to a party that you didn’t invite him to.  He’s a swell enough fella, and you get along fine, and you’re friends and all, but you didn’t invite him to this goddamn party, and not only has he shown up, but he’s bitchslapped the DJ and now making us listen to songs that make us feel shitty about ourselves because we don’t have enough time in our day to feed the hungry or heal the sick or end wars like he does.  And to Apple, I’d suggest that just because you own the building doesn’t mean that you decide what music your tenants are going to listen to.  You really should all be ashamed of yourselves.  If Steve Jobs were still alive, he’d shit on all of your chests.

Goddammit.  It’s like doing two shots of vodka, then going for the third, only to find the glass is full of water.  It’s a shock to the system, and not in any kind of good way.  It makes you want to throw the glass at the bartender’s face and make lewd comments about his mother.  That’s what I would do.  And that’s what I want to do to everybody that was involved in this.  I am actively fantasizing about throwing shot glasses at your face while the enraged corpse of Steve Jobs shits on all of your chests.  My reason for saying that is because in four and a half decades of life, I have never fantasized anything nearly that hateful and wretched, so if your goal here was to create fans of either U2 or Apple, you failed.  Fine.  Learn from your mistake.

Am I making too big of a deal out of this?  Nope.  I love my iPhone.  Seriously.  It has changed my life.  And lately I have been developing some rather uncomfortable yet real romantic feelings for Siri. ( I dunno…she just knows how to talk to me.)  But no matter how much I love them or anybody else, do NOT fuck with my music.  I’ll cut you.

Okay.  I’m sorry.  It’s just that I feel strongly about this.  I was sonically violated, sans lube.

That’s it: time for Valium.

The moral of all this is that if you fill my in-box or my music collection with something unsolicited, unwanted, and potentially harmful (and yes, I think actual musical harm may have been done here), it is not art: it is spam.